Hetalia's Call of Duty
by Muragaragah
Summary: Prussia declares war on Germany, albeit in an alternative way: via Xbox 360. Random as heck Oneshot, mild GerIta, rated for Prussia's terrible mouth that needs to be soaped out and suggestive implications of war. Please don't take this seriously. x3


_**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
>As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.<br>Enjoy!~_

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><p>Hetalia's Call of Duty<p>

_Black Ops!_

Prussia kicked open the ivory front door that barred Germany's house from the outside world, earning a protesting squeak from its tarnished hinges. "Hey assholes, I'm home!" he called noisily, a hand flitting behind him to slam the door back into its oaken frame.

"Welcome home _bruder_, but must you be so loud and vulgar whenever you walk into my house?" Germany inquired in reply from the wrap-around sectional in the living room to Prussia's left without lifting his iceberg gaze from the open tome in his lap.

"Kesese! Of course I have to be all loud and stuff, Ludy, or else our peeps might not know that _the awesome_ has arrived!" Prussia laughed, not bothering to adjust his grating volume as he traipsed over to the wall-mounted flatscreen television that dominated the east-facing wall.

Germany nonchalantly flipped a page before dog-earing it and closing his book, whisking his argentine reading glasses off of the bridge of his nose and tidily folding them. "What exactly are you doing within three feet of that television, Gilbert? I don't want you to somehow break this one like the other before it… really, how in the hell did you manage to jab a Wiimote through the screen again…?" His cheeks reflexively reddened as his accent became more defined from gritting his teeth while he spoke; Prussia knew that his little brother was simply stewing in his own frustration, but at that moment he just didn't care.

Careful hands darted to both sides of the television, fingertips seeking the three telltale outlets that coincided with the hues of ketchup, mayonnaise, and mustard. "I've told you a million times, Ludo, the _verdammt_ piece of plastic slipped out of my hand right when I went to swing my sword! I thought you got over that when I scored this 60-inch beauty from America?" His trademark lopsided smirk twisted his lips as the rims of those three digital holes on the left side of the television slipped underneath his fingertips. "Ah, found them! Back in a minute."

He vacated the room as Germany muttered something akin to "I'll damn well get over it if you don't _ever_ play Twilight Princess in my house again," breaking into a mad dash as soon as his feet hit the hardwood floor of the hallway leading to his room.

_Ach, I need to clean this trash heap out soon._ Prussia had to force open his door, buffeted by an overflowing pile of clothes and hop over random assortments of debris to reach his beloved, pristine entertainment center. It had to have been the only piece of furniture within the room that Prussia had painstakingly assembled from the box in which it originated, having picked it up half-price at Wal-Mart. The two black lacquered wooden doors on its front opened easily, surprising the albino: he could have sworn that gum had fallen into one of the door's crevices last week. He shrugged the thought away as he collected his slim, obsidian Xbox 360 that glinted beautifully in the sunlight, reminding himself to grab his system's cords and four controllers. Nudging the center's doors shut until they clicked, Prussia fought his way through the accumulated garbage and knickknacks on his floor and slid out of his lair, abandoning his Xbox for a split second to tug his door shut before wrapping his arm around the console once again.

Prussia returned to the living room, a bright grin illuminating his face as he espied the auburn-haired Italian that shared Germany's house now perched dangerously close to his bear of a brother, almost (but not quite) leaning against the uptight blonde. In the back of his mind he noticed that the book that his brother possessed before he had excused himself to run to his room had disappeared entirely. "Hey Italia! How goes it?" he greeted the other cheerfully, gingerly setting down the prized bundle in his arms in front of the flatscreen.

"It goes well, though I'm a little worried about Ludy! He seems really angry," Italy replied, his tone lively though his brows furrowed in concern.

The malicious aura that seemed to radiate in waves off of Germany blackened considerably as Prussia waved a hand through the air, starting to unfurl the Xbox's cords. "Don't worry, Ita! He's just mad 'cause he didn't inherit any _awesome_ from _Vater_ Germania, kesese~!"

The albino howled in laughter as his brother's open palm smacked against the porcelain plane of his forehead in an undeniable facepalm. Italy tried to grasp Germany's wrist to stop him but halted in his haste as the platinum-haired country leaned in and planted a kiss to the middle of Italy's forehead, a rather affectionate gesture that seemed to convey the message _don't worry, I'm fine_. Prussia immediately shut up and turned away from the other two and more toward his plateau of technology on the floor, hooking cords into both the game console and the TV. With one hand he fished the brick-like touchscreen cell phone out of his pants pocket, thumb deftly gliding across the keyboard that popped up. He typed a quick leetspeak message and sent it via text, depositing the chunky phone back into his pocket. Cracking his knuckles as if he were about to punch someone's face in, he unbuttoned and shed the cerulean jacket that he always wore, jolting inwardly from the frigid iron of his cross necklace slipping underneath the burgundy fabric of the wifebeater that conformed nicely to his taut torso.

A fiery sort of determination flared behind his faceted ruby optics as he stooped down and scooped up two of the midnight controllers perched on top of the 360, waltzing straight up to his stereotypically German brother and dropping one hunk of programmed plastic into his lap while keeping the other behind his back. "What's this for?" Germany inquired, a flavescent brow quirking as he poked the left control stick in the same fashion that a young boy might poke at a dead frog with a twig.

Prussia's head dropped to his chest, his voice growing from the ghost of a whisper to an outright shout as he began to speak, "You've always been able to best me at just about everything,_ bruderlein…_ the arts, cooking, even military tactics to some extent…" his thumb flicked across the chrome power button embedded in the center of the controller, holding it down until the unmistakable whirr of the console behind him met his ears, his head jerking up as his crimson gaze locked with his brother's fierce cyan, "…but that ends today! I, Gilbert Beilschmidt, so solemnly—no, _awesomely —_declare war on you, Ludwig Beilschmidt, in order to reinstate my title of Awesome! _Will you answer the Call of Duty?_"

A positively dumbfounded expression adorned Germany's masculine features as he processed his brother's words. "What?"

"You heard me, _bruder!_" Prussia boomed, taking a few paces backward and flipping the television's power button on as a copyrighted emblem appeared in the center of the screen, "I declare war on you, Call of Duty: Black Ops style! You have Italy as your ally, and I have… _America!"_

At that moment said dirty blonde-haired and sky blue-eyed nation crashed unceremoniously through the front door, sporting his favorite sepia hoodie with a huge number 50 on the back in milky white, a star patch on the front, and a plane's likeness on the upper part of his left arm. "Sup dudes! You said you needed some reinforcements, Gil?"

"Hell yes I did!" Prussia hollered back as America shut the door behind him and crossed the room to stand beside the snowy-haired country. "We're the Awesome Heroes and we're so gonna pwn your asses!"

"Dude, that name's so freaking lame," America remarked, adjusting the pair of glasses that lay comfortably against the bridge of his nose.

Germany's brow began to quiver from remaining arched for several minutes, a bewildered expression frozen on his face from the sheer absurdity of the display that unfolded in front of him. Once he regained control of his facial muscles and rediscovered the ability to speak, he dissolved into a fit of laughter quite unfitting of the normally-strict country. "Why the hell are you laughing?" Prussia quipped, his brows knitting together in mock frustration. "This is war!"

"Ah," Germany murmured with a satisfied tone after taking a few breaths to stabilize himself, "alright, alright, I'll play along with your 'war.' What is at stake here?"

The albino's mouth shifted thoughtfully before he responded, "If _you_ win, I'll become your personal slave for a week. But if _I_ win… I get Italy for the same purpose! Sound fair?"

"When you ask that you make it seem like I actually have a say in the matter," Germany retorted, wielding the controller in both hands now. "I'd rather it be me than Italy for your victory spoils."

"_Nein!"_ Prussia shot back. "Italy cooks way better than you, and he won't gripe at me about how messy my room is if I ask him to clean up. Of course, this is if Italy doesn't mind…."

Italy merely shrugged in reply, eliciting a sharp look from his blonde German comrade.

"Good then! Let's wage some motherfucking _war_, bitches!"

Italy had then taken it upon himself to retrieve a controller from the two placed on top of the Xbox, handing the other free controller to America before returning to his spot beside Germany. America whispered his thanks, barely resisting the urge to reach out and pat the shorter country on the head as he moved toward the other side of the sectional, taking a seat beside the now-sitting Prussian. "Okay peeps, we're playing Team Deathmatch—I don't think I need to explain the teams, but America and I will take the Black Ops team and you and Italy can take Spetsnaz just to make it easier to tell the scores apart. Anyone have a map in mind that they want to go to?"

America scrolled through the names of maps that had popped up onscreen until he stopped at the Summit. "Can we go there?"

Germany scrutinized the miniscule square at the bottom of the screen that served as a preview of the map, noticing what appeared to be a military base covered in flurried snow. "Sure, I have no problem with it."

Italy nodded in agreement, the movement accompanied by a faint "ve~" that he unintentionally tacked at the end of his sentences or gestures every so often. "Awesome, the Summit it is! Anyone need to screw around with their classes before we get to it?" Prussia asked, scarlet eyes darting from America to his right to his brother on the other side of the sofa.

"Course I do!" America piped up, automatically choosing the 'Create a Class' option from the abbreviated menu on the left side of the screen. "Goddamn it's been forever since I played Black Ops with you guys, hasn't it? My dude's still equipped with an Olympia shotgun!"

It took no time for the wheat-haired country to select the M60, his newly-preferred gun of choice, equip it with a Reflex Sight, completely change the reticle and camo to reflect his red, white, and blue, swap out a few perks and trade in his RPG for the ever-lithe Ballistics Knives. "'Kay, ready!"

"Everyone else good?" Prussia asked one final time with such gravity in his voice, as if he were tolling a death knell instead of initiating a video game match.

Once the others had sounded their affirmations, a huge grin crept across Prussia's face as he prodded the Start button. "Awesome! Let's do this _shit!"_

The tension in the air seemed to grow in accordance with the loading bar that swept swiftly across the bottom of the screen, charged with a competitive electric current that fueled adrenaline. In less than a minute four equally-sized, black-and-white quadrilateral screens occupied the immense television, each reflecting the point of view of the controller-equipped countries behind the barrel of their respective guns. Background music blared as a concealed announcer's voice bolted out of the speakers: "Team Deathmatch!" Dandelion numbers beginning at ten flashed across the screen until they it hit 1; vivid color flooded the screens as the players began to move, dispersing into the depths of the rather enclosed map.

America and Prussia knocked their heads together, attempting futilely to whisper their military tactics without letting their adversaries hear. "Ah, crap! Prussia got me!" Italy cried suddenly as his digital avatar hit the ground, met with Prussia's devious "Kesese~!" and America's "Woo, first blood!"

"_Schisse,"_ Germany mumbled under his breath as he whipped around a corner and unsheathed his melee knife, no doubt slicing someone's throat.

A slight smile piqued the corners of his mouth as a string of unintelligible colloquial curses spewed from his brother's saffron-haired partner. Bloodied flashbacks flickered across the abyss of Germany's mind as he gunned down another enemy in the snow-covered, pixellated space that he monitored from the safety of his own sofa, brusquely attempting to distract him from the game. He tried to shake off the stomach-turning mental photographs that never ceased to come into focus every time he blinked, with every electronic kill, with every instance of death that his nameless soldier faced. Instead of viewing the game, all he could see were the piles of bodies around him from countless battles, wars that were as familiar to him as the back of his hand… his periphery tinged sangria red as his video game rendition flung himself to the ground, tilting the barrel of his outfitted Galil assault rifle into the stomach of the enemy in front of him and squeezing his controller's trigger until his fingertip turned completely white, until the uniformed man in front of him tumbled lifeless to the ground….

"Germany, you can stop now, the battle's over."

The voice of his Italian companion jarred Germany from the zone that he had transcended in the ten-minute span of the match. He relinquished his grip on the trigger as he glanced into Italy's face, noticing that the luscious butterscotch color of his irises were visible for one of the only times since he had barged into the German's life. His gaze left Italy to slide over to his brother and America, who appeared somehow wounded from the beating that he had administered in that last game. "Holy shit, _bruder,_ I never knew you were so good at this game," Prussia commented before hopping to his feet and striding over to stand in front of his brother, with America shadowing his movements. "30 fucking kills and 3 deaths, such bullshit… anyway, I humbly accept defeat! _Verdammt_, I'm gonna have to prove my awesomeness some other way!"

Germany handed off his controller to the albino in front of him before standing and vacating the room without so much as a word to escape his lips, headed off into the depths of his home. Italy stared worriedly after the draconian country that he somehow had fostered a deep adoration for, leaving his controller on the couch as he also sprung to his feet. "Thanks for the game, Prussia! I'm going to go check on Germany though, he seemed really weird when we were playing it… I wonder if he's alright…."

Prussia's expression dropped as he nodded, recalling the abnormal façade that had overtaken his brother's features as soon as the match started. He felt as if he had seen that look of curt bloodthirstiness before, though he couldn't exactly place it. "Okay Ita. I'll be out here if you need me."

Italy nodded before saluting the two countries, a feeble smile winding across his lips as America returned the gesture. He flew out of the living room, knowing that his German would retreat to either his office or his room after something unnerved him. Within a few seconds he found himself standing outside the closed door leading to Germany's office, a fisted hand rising as knuckles rapped against the treated wood. "Germany! It's me! Let me in please!"

Pleasant surprise engulfed Italy as the distinct sound of the doorknob's lock disengaging met his ears. He cracked open the door and slipped inside, surely closing the mahogany barrier behind him as topaz eyes surveyed the room. Germany perched against his tidy office desk, his arms folded firmly against his toned chest. Italy skipped up to his friend, folding his arms around the other's neck as he popped up on his tiptoes to reach comfortably. "Ludwig, what's wrong? What happened out there?" Faint anxiety laced his airily-accented voice.

Germany's head dropped abruptly as a heavy sigh heaved in his chest before his robin's egg eyes found Italy's, beholding how the dying rays of sunset's light illuminated his amber irises in such a way that granted an ethereal quality to the hue. "That game reminded me of the battles that I've fought in, that's all. It's nothing to worry about, Italia, don't concern yourself with it. Alright?"

Italy almost had to hop to peck the tip of Germany's nose, his arms uncoiling from around the other's neck to pry his arms apart, placing them around his waist. "If you're sure, Ludy. Do you want to be left alone right now?"

"No no, we must return to the idiots in the living room before they break something," Germany muttered, fondly squeezing the narrow-framed Italian. "But before we go… thank you for worrying about me. Even though it's not a pleasant thing to do."

Before Italy could reply Germany leaned down as his lips met the other's, for once catching the redhead off-guard. The sapphire-eyed country pulled away after a moment that felt like a century in itself, lips brushing against the shell of Italy's ear as he breathed, "_Ich liebe dich_."

Gentle rouge suffused through the smaller country's cheeks as the spiky hairs on the back of his neck rose. "Aww, Germany, I love you too!" Italy nuzzled the other's cheek, relishing the rare, outwardly tender moment.

"Good," Germany grunted, a tiny smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. "Now let's go back to the other two. I've got to rub my victory in Gilbert's face."

One arm curled around the blonde's waist as the two lovers shared a glance before turning toward the door and exiting the room, a huge grin firmly affixed to Germany's face: he had proven himself to his brother by completely annihilating him on his own turf and his Italian friend was practically plastered to his side. In his past words to Japan, 'it was almost perfect.'

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><p><em>Fin.<em>


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